


Minuet of Forest

by Rose_of_Pollux



Series: The Boudetase Affair [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Early Days, Gen, Mission Fic, bit of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya head to Rio to try to prove the identity of the “Baron of THRUSH”--and uncover a dastardly plot in the process. [First Mission fic; sequel to "Prelude of Light"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minuet of Forest

**Author's Note:**

> This will be the second in a series of six fics chronicling the highlights of the first year of Napoleon and Illya’s partnership.

The two weeks following the initial meeting between Napoleon and Illya were met with preparations for their first mission as partners in Rio—a simple reconnaissance mission to pick up information on Moran. Illya was still getting used to New York, and he found reactions to him around U.N.C.L.E. to be mostly positive. True, there were a few people who ignored him completely, a few people who stared with suspicion in their eyes, and a few who would whisper to each other as he walked passed, but, for the most part, the agents of the New York branch welcomed Illya as one of their own, greeting him warmly and advising him where to go for the best food, drinks, and coffee. And there were some who seemed to be concerned with the fact that he was partnering up with Napoleon. The rumor mill already had a series of field days with Napoleon, as Illya was already aware of. The Russian found himself being greeted by some agents advising him not to take it personally if Napoleon ended up going after the glory on his own.

“He’s so obsessed with this Baron thing, you know?” an agent said. “I heard it that his ex—some lady named Clara—up and left him because he wouldn’t stop thinking about going after the Baron. Said she didn’t want to be playing second fiddle to his work. So, even if you do help him with this Baron thing, it’s likely he’s going to push you off to the side. You’d better be prepared for that. Solo’s a good guy—no doubt about that. But working with a partner just isn’t his thing. He won’t stand for anyone getting in his way—especially not a partner. Last thing he needs is a liability. …Not that you will be, of course. Just don’t take it personally if he just… ignores you. Or if there’s tension.”

Illya didn’t bother to tell the agent that he was mistaken. In the past two weeks, there had been surprisingly little tension between himself and Napoleon—something that the both of them had been pleasantly surprised to see, given their different personalities and backgrounds. Napoleon had gotten Illya set up with the apartment next door to his, instructing him not to hesitate to ask if he needed help with anything. For his part, Illya spent long hours during their work day going over all the details and evidence that Napoleon had picked up over the last two years, and any thoughts and feedback that he had were most welcomed by the American, who didn’t seem annoyed at all.

It had quickly become clear to Illya how Napoleon had successfully gotten the better of Emory Partridge: dedication, tenacity, and fortitude—with a little cleverness thrown in. And yet, contrary to the glory-seeking portrait that the rumor mill had painted, Napoleon never bragged about the feat; in fact, he had never mentioned Partridge at all. One thing that did seem to be true, however, was how focused on the Baron case Napoleon seemed to be at all times; even away from work, during a shared meal or coffee, Napoleon was silently calculating in the back of his mind, making plans for Rio. And Illya hoped that he wouldn’t end up being underfoot.

Their arrival in Rio was quiet and without fanfare, as they had hoped; it didn’t take long for them to blend in with the crowd of tourists there for Carnival.

“This place is…” Illya began, but trailed off, unable to describe the spectacle.

“Bigger and louder than you thought?” Napoleon asked.

“… _Da,_ ” Illya replied, trying to make himself heard. “How are we to find Moran in all of this?”

“He’ll be in the casinos first,” Napoleon reminded him. “We’ll need to pass as tourists if we hope to get close to him. Ah, _that_ should help… Just have a bit now and then and you’ll blend right in…”

Illya paused as Napoleon stopped to talk to a vendor, and soon walked over to Illya with two small bottles.

“Drinks?” Illya asked.

“Yes; it’s cachaça–the local liquor. Should be about as strong as vodka.”

“I shall be the judge of that,” Illya said.

“I’m sure you will. Now, remember—once we reach Moran, we have to get these special 1000 cruzerio bills into his pocket—or, at least, the pocket of one of his flunkies,” Napoleon said, holding up a roll of Brazilian currency. “Believe it or not, there’s a small device in this roll of money that serves as both a bug and a homing device. With it, we can find out where he goes and who he meets.”

“And we shall know if anyone from THRUSH speaks with him,” Illya finished. “It is a good plan.”

“Glad you think so. Now let’s just hope that it works.”

**************************************

It took a bit of searching until the finally found the casino where Moran had been spending the evening.

“Alright,” Napoleon said. “We’ve got to figure out a way to plant this roll of money on him.”

Illya glanced from the roll of bills in Napoleon’s hand to the bottle of cachaça in his own hand. The pieces began to come together.

“I know how,” he declared.

To Napoleon’s surprise, the Russian took a long drink of the cachaça and then poured some of it on his face and down the front of his shirt. He then took the roll of bills from Napoleon and headed towards Moran, slipping a pair of tinted glasses on and borrowing a sunhat from a passerby.

Napoleon watched with interest as Illya bumped into Moran, dropping the roll of bills as he did so.

“Oh, I say!” Illya slurred, speaking in a received pronunciation accent that Napoleon had not expected to hear from him. “So sorry about that! I’m a bit out of sorts tonight… I’ve had a rather fantastic night here, and I just…” He trailed off, staring at his empty hand as though he was noticing it for the first time. “Extraordinary thing—I could have sworn I had some of my winnings in my hand just now…”

Illya began to look for the fallen money. Moran, amused and opportunistic, gently kicked the roll of fallen money over to one of his cronies, who picked it up while Illya was busy looking elsewhere.

“Easy come, easy go, Old Fellow,” Moran said, helping Illya up. “You sound as though you’ve had a good time regardless.”

“Oh, oh I have,” Illya said, leaning in close. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten more out of an evening.”

“Then go and have yourself another drink. The night is young. You can earn more money before it’s over.”

“And impress someone, as well,” Illya said, tapping his nose knowingly.

He stumbled off, glancing behind him slightly to see the crony hand over the roll of bills to Moran, who pocketed it.

He suppressed a grin and headed back to Napoleon, who was also trying to hide a grin behind his fist.

“Where did you learn that accent?” he asked.

“I studied in Cambridge,” Illya replied. His mouth twitched to a smile. “I take it you approve of my methods.”

“Approve? You bet. …And are we sure that _I’m_ the diabolical one here?”

“ _Da_ ; I am certain the idea would have crossed you mind soon enough,” Illya said, sincere in his assessment.

“Well, we can argue about that later; for now, we need to head back to the hotel and see what we can pick up on that transmitter.”

Illya was certainly relieved to hear that they were getting away from the loud Carnival scene; he had certainly seen enough of it to last him a lifetime. Napoleon, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have minded enjoying the celebrations for a while longer, but his zeal to prove that Moran was the Baron was enough to push that to the background.

It was shaping to be a long night regardless, and after ensuring that room service would provide them with enough food to last them until morning, Napoleon and Illya sat at the desk of the room with all of their tracking equipment surrounding them; between them, they shared a pair of headphones tapped into the tape recorder they were using to record what the bug was picking up.

Moran stayed at the casino for hours without much interaction from anyone other than his entourage. Illya suppressed a yawn as Napoleon drank from a mug of coffee.

“You know, you probably could turn in,” the American offered. “I’d wake you if anything happened.”

“I shall be fine,” Illya assured him. “I must admit, I am eager to be awake in the event that something does happen.”

Napoleon smiled and offered him the mug of coffee.

“At least have a bit of caffeine to keep you awake.”

“ _Spacibo_ ,” Illya mumbled, deciding to take him up on it. He took a drink from the mug and flinched slightly at how sweet it was.

“Something wrong?” Napoleon asked.

“Most people add sugar to the coffee; you are the first person I have met who adds coffee to the sugar,” Illya said, without thinking. He regretted his words almost instantly, feeling he had, once again, overstepped his bounds in front of a senior agent.

Mercifully, Napoleon chuckled.

“I can get you another cup of coffee if you’d like,” he offered. “One with less sugar.”

“No, no; it is fine,” Illya insisted, and to prove his point, he took another sip of the coffee, this time keeping a straight face.

“Illya, it’s really no trouble…” Napoleon began, but he trailed off as the tracker showed Moran suddenly on the move—at a high rate of speed. “Now where is he off to in such a hurry?”

He held up one of the headphone output points to his ear, allowing Illya to hold up the other one to his. The coffee was quickly forgotten as they heard Moran speak.

“You are certain that the charter plane is ready?”

“Yes; it has more than the adequate fuel for the three hours,” a crony said. “As well as the return trip.”

“Good; I wish to be back in Rio by morning so that my absence is not known,” Moran replied. “Why THRUSH needs me to approve of the plan details in person is beyond me; I could have approved it by phone.”

Napoleon stared at the recording equipment in excitement, a look of triumph in his eyes. He had found his proof; their mission was accomplished. He cast a glance at Illya, who smiled back in reply; the Russian was genuinely happy for him.

“They were concerned that U.N.C.L.E. would have tapped the phones at all the hotels in Rio,” another crony said. “If they were to find out the details of the plan to use the new paralytic gas, they would do anything to stop it. And we must know the exact time our boys intend to paralyze Carnival so that we can avoid the fumes and aid with the heist.”

The smile was wiped from Napoleon’s face in an instant; Illya had quickly sobered as well, taking a long drink from the coffee—that one sentence had ensured that it was going to be a long night indeed.

Moran let out a grunt.

“Very well. At least now U.N.C.L.E. will take us seriously. And not just U.N.C.L.E.; perhaps now we can convince the Soviets to hand over their launch codes to THRUSH.”

Illya choked on the coffee. Napoleon slapped him on the back a few times, though he still listened in; Moran had stopped talking about the plan, however, and was now discussing about his casino winnings.

Napoleon let the recorder continue to record the conversation as he turned to Illya.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think we are in great danger,” Illya said, his face pale. “THRUSH wants our launch codes, and they want to use this paralytic gas as leverage—if they seize control of our missiles, it could spell disaster for the entire world!”

“How easy or difficult would it be to get control?” Napoleon asked.

“I was in the navy long enough to know that THRUSH has been seeking the launch codes for a long time. …You will forgive me, of course, but I cannot explain to you in detail—”

“Of course,” Napoleon said. “It seems to me that THRUSH wants to use Rio as a demonstration to convince your former comrades in arms to hand over those launch codes. They set off the missiles and start World War Three.”

Illya shook his head. If war broke out, he knew he’d be recalled back to the Soviet Navy. He preferred working for U.N.C.L.E.—fighting to preserve peace instead of fighting to triumph in war. And he would undoubtedly be forced to the side opposite the one that his newfound partner would be on.

“Napoleon, we must find out where they are going—where they keep that paralytic gas!”

“Mr. Waverly sent us down here on a reconnaissance mission,” Napoleon reminded him. “Are you suggesting we take the liberty to follow THRUSH and partake in sabotage?”

“…Yes,” Illya said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I am. I do not want war, Napoleon. I understand that you are the senior agent, and if you feel that I am overstepping my bounds…” He trailed off, noticing the look of admiration on Napoleon’s face.

“Illya,” the American said, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder. “It’s an honor to be partnered with you. Let’s go stop them.”

**************************************

It had taken them some time to gather their equipment and find transportation to the airfield that Moran had gone to. His plane seemed to have taken off while they were on the way there, but by keeping an eye on the tracking equipment, Illya was able to calculate where Moran was going as Napoleon drove through the crowded streets.

“Napoleon, if this trajectory is correct, a three-hour flight would put Moran in the Pantanal.”

“Well, it’s not unknown for THRUSH to set up hideouts in jungle environments,” Napoleon said, as he pulled into the airfield. “We just need to find a way to get there—and quickly.”

“Perhaps a charter flight or a small private plane?” Illya offered. “Assuming you know how to fly, of course.”

“I do, but I’ve always felt more comfortable with…” Napoleon trailed off as he noticed a helicopter. He looked to Illya, who met his gaze, as well. “…Choppers. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I think so,” Illya replied. “You fly; I shall contact the Rio branch of U.N.C.L.E. and tell them to prepare to secure Rio as best they can—and back us up in the Pantanal if they can spare the manpower.”

“Good—but it’s best not to mention the Baron specifically. They might think that I’ve swayed you over to this wild goose chase.”

“…But we have proof!” Illya pointed out.

“They haven’t heard it yet, and we don’t have time to try to convince them,” Napoleon explained. “Protecting Rio and preventing a successful THRUSH demonstration are our priorities now.”

“…Right,” Illya conceded. “Lead on.”

Napoleon nodded and led the way; Illya was right behind him, and soon, after showing their IDs and promising fuel reimbursement to the owner of the chopper, were on their way. Illya used his communicator, relaying the information of what they knew to the Rio branch as he monitored the tracking feed.

It was a couple hours later that the tracker appeared to have stopped. Illya was relaying the final coordinates as they approached.

“Napoleon, look!” he exclaimed, pointing at a small pontoon plane that had landed on a marshy clearing.

“This isn’t the final tracking location, is it?” Napoleon asked.

“No, but we are very close; they must have walked the rest of the distance,” Illya said. “Their base here isn’t too far from this location. That saves them the trouble of requiring additional transport.”

Napoleon suddenly frowned; they were making a rather loud approach in the chopper, which would ruin their element of surprise if they really were close to the THRUSH base. Aside from the clearing, the area was surrounded by tropical wetland forest.

“Based on your tracker, how close would you say the base is—and in what direction?” he asked.

“Just a bit east of here; I would say about a kilometer—”

He was cut off by a sudden yell of alarm from Napoleon; the American had glanced back towards the east the moment Illya had mentioned the direction, and had seen a small rocket being launched right at them, no doubt shot from a rocket launcher that a THRUSHie was toting. Napoleon desperately tried to veer the chopper out of the rocket’s trajectory—with only limited success.

“It got the tail!” he fumed, as they careened slightly off-course from the hit. Thankfully, it wasn’t so bad that they chopper was incapable of flying—but there was no time to relax, either. “I’ve got to bring it down, Illya!”

“What!? They will capture us!”

“If I don’t, they’ll shoot us out of the sky!” Napoleon countered, bringing the chopper down. “I’d rather take our chances without having had a fall!”

Illya bit his lip, but he knew Napoleon was making the only logical choice. He nodded in agreement.

The American soon brought the chopper down not too far from Moran’s pontoon plane. He was already out of the chopper and was heading for the safety of the marsh forest before realizing that Illya wasn’t following him; the Russian was still at the chopper, trying to salvage his recording and tracking equipment.

“Illya--!”

“In here is the proof that Moran is the Baron!” Illya countered now. “After all you did to get to this point, it makes no sense to leave it where it can be found and destroyed!”

And now it was Napoleon’s turn to concede that Illya had a good point; he himself went back to the chopper to help Illya carry the equipment.

“I think the best thing to do is find a place to hide the equipment and continue on towards the base,” Illya said.

“We’ve got to find somewhere where it won’t be destroyed by THRUSH or the elements,” Napoleon said.

“ _Da_ , I know; this is expensive equipment,” Illya said, with a wry smile. “And we already have to reimburse the owner of that helicopter for the damage.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon sighed, as he looked back at the chopper, which had a broken tail that was still smoldering. “Well, at least it’s only the tail that has to be repaired—”

The words had barely left his mouth when a second THRUSH rocket arced over their heads and landed right on top of the helicopter, which exploded before their eyes. The two agents hit the ground to avoid any shrapnel, and it was a few minutes before they dared to look up.

Napoleon now stared ahead with a look of utter disbelief at what remained of the chopper—which wasn’t much at all—and raised his arms in a helpless gesture of absolute exasperation.

“…I just _had_ to say it, didn’t I…?”

“Are you alright?” Illya asked, concerned, as he had been closer to the explosion.

“For now—but only until Mr. Waverly gets the expense report for what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission!” Napoleon exclaimed. He looked back at Illya with a helpless shrug.

The Russian lowered his gaze slightly; it had been his idea to chase Moran into the Pantanal, after all. He would have to discuss the expense report matter with Waverly once they returned—assuming they could escape from THRUSH here.

Napoleon’s mind was elsewhere, now, though; he was looking around as he tugged on Illya’s sleeve, leading him deeper into the marsh forest.

“THRUSH will be sending some grunts out here to survey the damage and make sure that we’re taken care of,” he said. “Hide the equipment in this undergrowth here; we need to be ready for them.”

Once the equipment had been hidden away, the duo concealed themselves in another bit of undergrowth, everything silent save for the calls of parrots and monkeys in the trees above them and, every few minutes, the bellow of an annoyed caiman from somewhere out in the marsh. They didn’t have too long to wait; two THRUSHies soon arrived. One indicated the wreckage of the chopper up ahead; as they headed towards it, Napoleon gently touched Illya’s arm to signal that it was time to make their move.

Slowly, they drew their Specials, and, almost simultaneously, tranquilized the two THRUSHies. With the use of some thick jungle vines and their own handkerchiefs, the agents soon had them bound and gagged and hidden in the undergrowth, as well—but not before stealing their uniforms, which the duo soon changed into, hiding their normal clothes with their equipment, taking the bare necessities with them. They had also taken the THRUSH infrared guns, as well.

“Frightening, is it not?” Illya said, as he examined the weapon. “A device that can be used to kill in the darkest of nights; not even the dark provides cover anymore. Had they used the infrared devices, they would have found us; it is only due to luck that they did not have the presence of mind to do so. What fiend came up with such a device?”

“Moran’s ancestor, Sebastian,” Napoleon responded. “He was infamously renowned for his marksmanship skills. He was attempting to create a temperature-sensitive aiming mechanism shortly before he died; THRUSH continued to develop the design until we got to what you see here.” He now adjusted the beret that was part of the THRUSH uniform; once he was satisfied, to turned to Illya and nodded. “If we go back in the direction that these two came from, it should lead us right to the base—and the lab where they’re keeping that paralytic gas. And then, of course, we neutralize it.”

“And Moran?” Illya asked, as they headed in that direction.

“If we can apprehend him, we will,” Napoleon said. “We can worry about trying to convince others of his identity later. But, remember, the priority is the lab—we’ve got to protect the innocents first and prevent THRUSH from intimidating the Soviet Union into giving them the launch codes.”

Illya had to admit that the thought of apprehending Moran then and there was appealing—and it would certainly impress both Waverly and Beldon, as well as set THRUSH back significantly. Still, building castles in the air was a foolish thing to do at any time, but especially so now—and as Napoleon had just pointed out, they had to put the well-being of those in Rio and the innocent people all across the globe first.

As they kept walking, it turned out that Napoleon’s hunch was correct; they soon arrived at a fenced-off area that was being patrolled by other THRUSH grunts. The area itself wasn’t very large, but there was a small, central structure, built almost like a storm cellar, that led to an underground facility.

“Just follow me and act like you belong here,” Napoleon said, quietly.

Illya did as he was told, and, sure enough, the other grunts didn’t give them a second glance as they entered through the gate at the side of the fence and then into the underground facility.

“The lab is probably on the deepest level,” the American continued. “We can just say that we’re trying to make sure that there’s enough gas for the plot—”

“Hey!” a voice called at them from down the corridor. “You two!”

Illya froze as he recognized the voice as one of Moran’s cronies. Napoleon shifted his position slightly so as to block Illya’s face from his view.

“Just stay calm,” he murmured under his breath to Illya while briefly saluting Moran’s flunky.

“Were you the ones we sent to see if there were any survivors in that helicopter?” the flunky asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Napoleon said. “There were no survivors; the explosion saw to that.”

“Was there any reason to believe that the occupants of the helicopter were U.N.C.L.E. agents?”

“None at all, Sir,” Napoleon said. “They appear to have been curious explorers that ended up finding out too much—not that it matters now, of course.”

“Good,” the flunky said. “The Baron will be pleased; he is in conference right now, but I will be sure to tell him as soon as he is free. You have both done good work; you can expect a pay raise soon.”

Napoleon suppressed a smirk as the flunky headed back in the direction he had come from.

“How do you like that?” he mused at Illya. “My first day with THRUSH, and I’ve already got a raise.”

“Bravo,” Illya intoned, amused.

The search for the lab continued, and it was Napoleon who found it—and the canisters of gas lined up against the wall. He let out a quiet sigh as he took note of the labels on the canisters.

“This is what we’re after, alright. They’re all ready to go for their raid on Rio,” he said. He picked up a sheaf of papers near the canisters that had the same serial number as the stickers on the canister. “And here’s the formula. Chemistry wasn’t my strong point; can you make anything out of this?”

“My area was quantum mechanics, but I did take a few chemistry courses on the side…” Illya began, but he trailed off as he looked at the formula. His eyes widened in excitement. “Napoleon…!”

“What? I hope you have good news….”

“ _Da_ , I do!” Illya replied. “As of now, this paralytic gas is unstable and breaks down into harmless compounds in the presence of liquid water—not only that, but its paralytic effects within the body are restricted to about thirty minutes on account of the body’s natural water content!”

“…That doesn’t sound like an effective tool to use at all to try to coerce foreign officials to hand over launch codes,” Napoleon said, with a frown. “Then again, thirty minutes is all they’d need to make a statement—they could fake giving an antidote to make it seem as though they controlled the revival of the victims.”

“True,” Illya sighed, sobering immediately. “What is more, it is clear to me that they are trying to adjust the formula such that water will no longer have an effect on it. I expect they’re in a rush to make a statement, so they’re willing to demonstrate with this less-than-perfect version first.”

“Well, imperfect or not, we can’t let them get the chance to have their way with Carnival—or the Russian officials,” Napoleon said. “Those papers you have—are those where they’re trying to adjust the formula?”

“ _Da_ , they are.”

Napoleon now glanced towards the ceiling—and the automatic emergency sprinklers that had been installed there.

“Illya…” he said, with a smirk. “Do you think an explosion would get rid of two birds with one stone?”

Illya smirked, as well, and placed the sheaf of papers on the canisters as Napoleon pulled a grenade from his pocket.

“Nice of our THRUSH friends to equip us with exactly what we needed,” Napoleon said. “Alright, let’s drop this and go; I think you have one, too, that we can leave just as a bit of an insurance policy.”

“Right, but what about Moran?” Illya asked, as he drew out a grenade, as well. “Do we go after him after we leave these here?”

Napoleon paused, frowning as he considered their options.

“As much as I want to, I don’t think that’s possible, considering that all the grunts and his personal crew of flunkies will be around him. Just let them think this explosion was an accident or a sabotage attempt from within rather than trying to tie it in to U.N.C.L.E.; we’re getting out of here.”

Illya nodded, impressed with Napoleon’s decision. Indeed, working with the American had shown the Russian that he was not the overly zealous Icarus heading for the sun as the rumor mill claimed him to be.

They left the grenades and attempted to leave as quickly as they could without attracting attention. They had made it aboveground and were heading for the fence around the compound when the ground beneath them shook as the grenades went off.

“Run!” Napoleon ordered, as the THRUSHies around them stared at the cellar structure in confusion.

There was no time to try to find the gate of the fence; they reached the edge and Napoleon cupped his hands to allow Illya to use them as a boost to get himself over the fence. Once at the top, he extended a hand down to Napoleon and began to pull him up as the THRUSHies finally noticed their escape.

First there was shouting, and then there was shooting. One bullet narrowly missed Illya’s ear, but it was as he turned back to his American partner that he heard another shot ring out close by, followed by Napoleon’s eyes widening in pain.

“Napoleon!” Illya exclaimed. He let out a yelp as Napoleon began to fall back, and the Russian braced himself and pulled, dragging his partner over the fence.

They were still being shot at; Illya immediately hoisted his partner over his shoulders and ran back into the marsh forest, not daring to stop until he was certain they were a safe enough distance away.

Gently, he laid Napoleon up against a tree in a sitting position, concerned at the growing gaunt expression on the American’s face.

“Where are you hit?”

“L…Leg…” Napoleon hissed, cringing as he glanced down and stared pointedly at the blood beginning to seep through his left thigh.

“ _Bozhe moy_ ; I think the bullet is still in your leg!” Illya gasped, quietly. “You should have told me! Carrying you along so carelessly as I had, I could have easily jostled the bullet and allowed it to nick your femoral artery! Oh, Napoleon, forgive me!”

“Nothing to forgive…” the American said, through gritted teeth. “Just get me out of here.”

“If I move you, that bullet could still nick your femoral artery,” Illya said. “You would have no chance if that happened—death by exsanguination!”

Napoleon exhaled as he shut his eyes, ignoring the sweat pouring down his face.

“Okay,” he sighed, after a moment. “You keep going—call for an extraction to get me out.”

“Leave you so close to the THRUSH base? They will kill you for certain!”

“They won’t exactly be easy on you if you’re found here, either,” Napoleon countered. He cringed as the pain in his leg spiked. “Illya, it makes sense for at least one of us to make it out of here.”

Illya looked at his partner and his pained expression for a moment before looking around to make sure that they had enough distance from the THRUSHies.

“I shall get the bullet out of your leg,” he insisted, at last.

“What--!?”

“Trust me, Napoleon,” Illya said. Though his degree had been in quantum mechanics, he had taken several anatomy courses with the intent of getting a second degree in pathology. He was just about ready to explain this when Napoleon gave him a long look—and nodded.

“Alright,” the American said, gambling on the man he’d only known for two weeks.

Illya decided that with time of the essence, he would skip the explanation for another day; he pulled a knife, tweezers, a matchbook, and the small bottle of cachaça from earlier out of his pockets; after cutting the trouser leg off of Napoleon, Illya used the cachaça and a flame from a match to sterilize the knife and tweezers, and then poured a bit of the cachaça on the wound. Napoleon cringed again.

“Should I sit on my hands?” he asked.

“That may be best,” Illya said. “There will be nothing in the way of anesthetic.”

“Do what you gotta do,” Napoleon said, with a nod.

Illya nodded back and positioned himself such that he could hold the leg steady with the crook of his arm; Napoleon would likely attempt to move his leg by reflex, no matter how much he would try to resist doing so. Illya took a moment to steel himself and then began to do the rudimentary surgery.

Napoleon’s leg tensed beneath his hold, and Illya could see his partner out of the corner of his eye going slightly pale, suppressing a growing cry in his throat. Illya forced himself to continue with the surgery.

He wasn’t sure for how long it went on for—it might have been fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. But, at last, he got the bullet out and quickly disinfected the wound with more cachaça before wrapping the wound with strips of cloth from the cut trouser leg and then releasing Napoleon’s leg.

“It’s over,” he said.

Napoleon grabbed his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off of his face. Illya handed over what remained of the cachaça and Napoleon drank it down before he was able to speak.

“Illya… thank you…”

“Do not thank me yet,” the Russian insisted, once again keeping his partner across his shoulders. “Wait until the extraction team finds us.” His hand left Napoleon’s arm as he went for his communicator. “Open Channel D…”

**************************************

Napoleon had tried to stay awake, but his ordeal had exhausted him; in spite of himself, he was soon out cold. He awoke some time later to the feel of a warm bed—and the sound of hushed voices. The scent of antiseptic told him he was in Medical.

“The doctor tells me that you did a most excellent job treating Mr. Solo’s wound, Mr. Kuryakin,” he heard Waverly say. “I do believe you could have had a successful career as a surgeon.”

“I am content where I am, Sir,” Napoleon heard Illya say.

Mr. Waverly lowered his voice.

“I also wish to congratulate the both of you on the evidence you obtained on proving that Moran is the Baron; you’ll understand, of course, that we’re keeping this information under wraps to avoid sending Moran into hiding.”

“ _Da_ , Sir, I understand,” he heard Illya say. “But I cannot take any credit for this; it was all Napoleon’s doing—as was saving Rio from the paralytic gas attack. His efforts over the last two years have finally borne fruit.”

“Yes… pity it couldn’t have been without that exorbitant expense account for that destroyed helicopter.”

“…That was, alas, my doing, Sir. I am fully prepared to have my wages reduced to make up for it.”

Napoleon continued to lie there, stunned. Not only was Illya giving Napoleon all of the credit for their success, but he was taking the blame for their failures, as well.

“He’s… selling himself… short, Sir…” Napoleon said, straining to be heard.

“Napoleon…!” Illya exclaimed, sounding rather embarrassed.

“Welcome back, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “Now what is this you’re telling me about your half of the story?”

Napoleon opened his eyes to see Illya and Waverly standing by his bedside. Illya seemed to be staring at the floor, awkwardly.

“Only that I couldn’t have gotten the evidence or stopped the gas plot without Illya’s help,” Napoleon said. “And also that the chopper was just as much my fault, too.”

“How about the both of you compose the mission report together and have it on my desk as soon as possible?” Waverly offered. “I’ll leave the two of you to sort it out. Good day, Gentlemen.”

Hiding his amusement, Waverly soon left Medical. Illya watched him leave and then sat down in a chair beside Napoleon’s bed.

“I am glad to see you are well,” Illya said, after a long silence.

“I wouldn’t have been, if you hadn’t gotten that bullet out of my leg,” Napoleon said, sincerely. “If you hadn’t been there, they’d have killed me.” He sighed. It was impossible to think that, two weeks ago, he hadn’t wanted a partner, and now… “Illya… The successes and failures in Rio were both ours. You don’t… You don’t have to make yourself look bad to make me look good. Remember that next time.”

Illya looked to him with a wan smile.

“There shall be a next time?”

“Well… I think we did pretty well,” Napoleon said. “And I think that maybe we can get a better crack at Moran now that…” He trailed off, the words not really needing to be said— _Now that we know that we can trust each other with our lives if need be_.

Illya nodded, understanding.

“ _Da_. Those two THRUSH grunts we tranquilized are currently being interrogated; hopefully, they shall have some information about Moran’s next plans for us,” the Russian said. “But first, you must recover.”

“I’m on it,” Napoleon promised, with a grin.

And Illya grinned back, the both of them looking forward to their next mission—one that would hopefully bring them closer to apprehending the Baron.

Until then, however, they would continue to enjoy each other’s company.


End file.
